


your eyes are fire

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Series: Our Dreams Wide Open [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Dorian, Dom/sub Undertones, Existential Angst, Guess I'm super into Dorian and the Quizzy this week, I don't know what happened honestly, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: Dorian and the Inquisitor explore each other's bodies and the emotions that are tangled into them. Dorian discovers something about the fierce Inquisitor and it changes everything.(A sequel-but you don't have to read the first one necessarily. There's no real plot here. It's just smut. Smutty smut smut)





	your eyes are fire

**Author's Note:**

> *looks into the camera*
> 
> Okay I don't know what happened. Yesterday I started rage writing Game of Thrones fix-it fic but then I got an idea for that smut that I published yesterday. And today I was like, okay I got things to write for both of my actual jobs. But here I am, 10 pages into EVEN MORE Dorian/Lavellan smut. 
> 
> *looks into the camera harder* 
> 
> What am I doing with my life? 
> 
> Anyway. Have some porn. With some feelings. I have no idea what it is dudes. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> -M

“Will you go back to Minrathous when this is done?”

They’re lying in bed one night, naked, sweat cooling on their bodies and the smell of sex ripe in the air.

Dorian glances up from the fingers tracing invisible patterns across the muscles of his stomach and meets the sharp gaze of his lover. His green eyes are not even a bit orgasm-glazed and Dorian finds that rather insulting.

Here he is, barely able to string two thoughts together, every nerve in his body sluggishly moving past pleasure into sleep.

“Perhaps,” he says finally, reaching out to stroke faded green ink before cupping his lover’s cheek. “I am disturbed by how brazen some of our magisters have become. And Orlais…”

He falls silent, caught in the deep green gaze of his love. The Inquisitor.

“Mahanon,” he starts but he stops when the other man shakes his head and leans in to claim his lips in a hard kiss.

“Not now, Dorian,” Mahanon Lavellan sighs, eyes flickering closed when Dorian’s hand moves to sink in his braided hair and pulls him closer. “We don’t have to discuss this now.”

 _We will one day though_ goes unsaid but for now, Dorian contents himself with trailing fingers and lips over his lover’s tanned and inked body.

“Again?” Mahanon asks, laughter coloring his voice when he’s pushed back against the plush pillows filling his bed and Dorian straddles him. “What they say about Tevinter’s mages must be true.”

Dorian snorts and glances up from his lover’s beautiful chest and cocks a brow. “And what do ‘they’ say, amatus?” he asks, grinning wickedly when Mahanon squirms and curses under the fingers teasing his pierced nipples.

“That-that you use blood magic to grow stiff multiple times throughout the night with your lovers,” Mahanon pants, a faint whine in his voice.

Dorian actually laughs at that and leans down to mouth at a peaked and pierced nipple, the cool taste of silverite washing over his tongue, to mingle with the musky salt of his lover’s skin.

“The longer I am in the south, the more ridiculous the stories of my homeland grows,” he says, humming a bit and making a show of running his half-hard cock along his lover’s own twitching member. “But to be fair, we have our own stories about the Dalish, you know.”

He can almost hear Mahanon rolling his eyes and grins, running his mouth from one nipple to the next, reveling in the salty taste of the other man’s body. He can feel their cocks hardening, pressed and grinding together each time one or the other of them shifts.

Maker, but it is a glorious feeling.

Strong, slender fingers settle in his hair and Mahanon growls something in elvish, forcing Dorian’s head up.

“And what do the Vints have to say about the clans,” he growls, green eyes sparking with something almost cruel.

Dorian, captured by the hard hand in his hair, shivers, white hot desire starting to once more pool in his belly and sweet, blessed Maker.

He’s hard again.

“They say,” he purrs, ignoring the hard grip in his hair and trailing staff-callused fingers up his lover’s body to frame his face and sink as best as they are able in his bound black hair. “That the Dalish gods bless the clans with never-ending stamina and well-endowed cocks.”

He lingers on the last word, rolling his hips down on their erections, his muscles already starting to melt a bit with the desire burning through his skin.

He chuckles and leans with some difficulty down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse thundering in his lover’s throat.

“I am rather inclined to believe the tales of late, amatus. At least those of the latter,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue against the reddened skin.

Mahanon’s eyes flicker, the green depths eaten almost entirely by black pupils, and sharp canines appear for a moment as he bites back a groan.

The fingers gripping Dorian’s head spasm and he growls something in unintelligible elvish.

Dorian catches “ _fen’harel ma halam_ ” which he has heard enough from this man’s lips in recent months to know the general meaning of and he grins, before nipping at Mahanon’s throat.

“The Dread Wolf is perfectly welcome to join us,” he purrs, rolling his hips once more but before he can complete any other thought or tease a little bit more, Mahanon snarls something and flips them easily.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Dorian,” he growls, dark eyes blazing with desire and something...else.

Dorian shivers at the sight. He only fights a little when his hands are gathered in Mahanon’s strong grip and forced over his head, his hips clamped tight between his lover’s thighs. He moans, eyes fluttering at the friction of their hips grinding together and a faint whine issues from the corded muscles of his throat.

Mahanon curses him in elvish once more, every bit of his attention focused on Dorian arching beneath him and he groans, cock twitching and beginning to leak insistently.

“Damn you,” he whispers, leaning down to claim Dorian’s mouth in a fierce kiss. Dorian gasps, opening immediately for the assault, his body seeming to melt simultaneously into the bed and upwards into his lover’s harsh grip. “What am I going to do with you?”

Dorian chuckles at that, breathless when the kiss breaks so they can catch their breath and start the process of arranging their limbs for whatever may come next. His vision tunnels a bit, every nerve in his body firing, his entire world narrowing to the sensation of their skin, still slicked over from their last romp, meeting and he sighs, arching a bit.

“Take your hair down, amatus,” he says, eyes locked on the myriad of twists holding his lover’s hair out of his eyes. “Please. I would-I would ask you to undress all the way for me.”

Mahanon hesitates. They’d been sharing a bed for almost a month now.

Never had his hair come down for their nights together. Not since that first night, when their dream selves had met in the Fade.

Dorian longs to feel his hair on his body.

But has never asked until now.

“Please, Mahanon,” he asks, freeing a hand from the vice grip pinning him and running trembling fingers along a sharp cheekbone of his lover. “Let me see you undone.”

The double meaning of those words washes over them.

A month they’d spent together.

Mahanon Lavellan had very rarely fallen apart in Dorian’s presence. The man was always so guarded. So fierce.

So ready to take control.

Dorian revels in it. But he also knows…

Control goes both ways.

“Let me love you,” he whispers, pulling Mahanon’s head down so their lips can meet once more. The kiss is gentle, but no less heated than the many other fierce caresses they’ve shared.

Their tongues tangle together, stroking, twining and teasing. Dorian’s neck arches, giving the other man full access, giving into his surrender, and Mahanon groans.

“Ma vhenan,” he murmurs, freeing Dorian’s still captured wrist and dragging his hand down the other man’s tanned body to rest against his throat. “Ma melava halani da Mythal’enaste.”

Dorian, even if his ears weren’t full of the rushing of his blood heading south, would barely have understood the elvish spilling from Mahanon’s scarred, beautiful lips. But he could see the soft glow of love in his eyes.

He could feel it in his hands.

Taking his courage up, he reaches a trembling hand between them and begins undoing the complicated braidings holding his lover’s hair in place.

“Kaffas,” he whispers when he does nothing but tangle the black tresses, “Why must you always be so complicated, amatus?”

“Here, let me. You’ll make a mess of it, lethallin.”

Mahanon chuckles and still straddling Dorian, sits upright and begins unwinding his hair quickly and efficiently. It is a sight that will forever live in Dorian’s memory, Mahanon’s back arching subtly, his slender fingers unweaving his hair. Eyes closing in bliss as the tight winds finally relax, freeing his scalp from their grips. Maker bless him...

Soon, a curtain of long, soft black hair tumbles down to brush the small of his back. Dorian just stares, for a moment enraptured with the way the fire catches the gentle waves. With the way it falls forward a bit to hide the shaved sides of Mahanon’s skull.

Mahanon, suddenly shy, blushes under the wide-eyed gaze of the mage beneath him.

“It’s getting to be too long,” he murmurs, reaching up to tuck it behind his pointed ears. “Josephine dislikes it, says it’s improper for an Inquisitor. I should ask Cassandra to shear it for me.”

“No,” Dorian blurts, reach up to run a strand of the black silk between his fingers. “Please, don’t let that butcher hack your beautiful hair.”

Impossibly, Mahanon’s cheeks darken even more and Dorian is suddenly struck by the realization that this man is not used to being praised for his beauty.

That being a Dalish in charge of a bunch of crass, brutal humans may…

Well.

“Your hair is beautiful, as beautiful as you, amatus,” he says, gently, sitting up slowly. Mahanon adjusts, accommodating their bodies and gods…

He looks so young. So uncertain.

Dorian starts to understand now.

“Do not let them take this from you-take your heritage away. I see it. And I respect it. You don’t have to hide from me, Mahanon,” he says, sifting his hands through the waves of ebony silk spilling over his fingers. “I know you, I will always love you, amatus. You are my fierce elf. I cherish you. Let me cherish you.”

His murmurs are met with closed eyes and a trembling smile.

“Ma seranas, Dorian,” he says, reaching one hand up to cup the back of Dorian’s skull and pull him close. “I do not...I do not deserve you.”

Their lips press together once more, this time the kiss a mix of the old heat and the newer comfort. Dorian moans, open-mouthed, when their cocks rub together and he whispers Mahanon’s name, reaching between them to grip their aching, leaking members tight.

Chests pressed together, one scarred and inked, the other flawless and tanned, he revels in the shared heat and mingling sweat.

Mahanon’s head falls back on his shoulders the moment Dorian’s hand draws up in an expert flick of his wrist, the wet slick sound echoing in his chambers. The sight of his lover slowly coming undone, of his hair spilling like a waterfall down his back, of the muscles cording in his throat…

Maker.

Dorian’s hand works them harder, faster, with flicks and twists of his wrist and he ignores muscles starting to cramp. He ignores the almost too slick sensation of their mingling seed coating his skin. His thumb rubs across their tips, forcing the hood on Mahanon’s thickness back with each pass, easing more cum from his member to slick them down once more.

He simply watches and murmurs endearments to the man tangled in his lap, trailing kisses occasionally along Mahanon’s chest.

They’ve spent a month acquainting themselves with each other’s bodies. A blissful month of limited fighting throughout the country and many heated, sleepless nights in Mahanon Lavellan’s elegant four poster bed.

 _The Inquisitor and I_ , Dorian thinks idly, smiling when said Inquisitor invokes his goddess and his Dread Wolf in equal turn and begins to fall apart in his hand. Strong hands, staff callused like his own, grip his shoulders tight, anchoring them in place. _He tastes like elfroot and salt. If only Mother Giselle could see us now..._

When his tongue flicks the metal in one of the other man’s nipples, Mahanon snarls something in elvish, head snapping forward and eyes flying open.

Desire, wicked and heated, makes his eyes almost seem to glow and Dorian gasps, losing his rhythm.

“Stop distracting me,” Mahanon growls, yanking Dorian’s hand off their slick erections and pushing the other man back into the mattress. “I will have you again, ma vhenan.”

Dorian pants, every nerve firing in his body once more at the manhandling, at the sensation of Mahanon forcing his thighs wide.

“Take me,” he moans, back arching when Mahanon settles between his trembling legs. Gone is the uncertain young Dalish. Gone is the blushing lad. Instead...Maker, instead he is faced once more with the fierce leader they all will die for, should they be asked. Dorian shivers deep in his soul and tangles his fingers in the silken sheets he’s being pressed into. “Take me, however you like.”

The words fall from his lips unbidden. An echo of that first night on the shadowed walkways of Skyhold.

Mahanon’s eyes flicker at that, some of the heat dropping from his gaze as he considers the man spread body and soul before him.

“Dorian,” he whispers, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the other man’s arched throat. His black hair falls forward to curtain their faces, hiding them from the greater world out there.

And Dorian smiles.

“I am yours, Mahanon Lavellan,” he says, reaching forward to kiss the other gently. “Always. Now,” here he grins. “Fuck me, hard, you wicked Dalish and live up to the stories I’ve heard of your people my entire life.”

To his credit, Mahanon only hesitates a beat, then, with a fierce grin and a throaty chuckle, he reaches between them and in one smooth roll of his hips he pushes his erection deep in Dorian’s ass.

“Maker,” Dorian pants, his voice wrecked at the sensation of penetration he will never quite grow used to. Stretched wide around Mahanon’s much thicker girth, he whimpers, head tossed back in the pillows and he shudders, arching with a whine when Mahanon lowers his head to suckle at his nipple.

“Are you all right?” the other asks, his voice tight with restraint and concern. “Dorian-”

“Yes,” Dorian breathes, the word wanton as he arches and spreads his legs wider, reveling when Mahanon slips deeper, the head of his cock beginning to brush that secret, dark spot within him. “Yes, Maker take you. _Fuck me, Mahanon_.”

The first thrust rocks him back against the pillows and Dorian’s breath hisses between his clenched teeth, the burn of being stretched-even after their first romp that night-almost too much but then, as Mahanon draws slowly up and out, each movement controlled as only he can be, heat replaces the burn and Dorian melts into the bed with a sigh.

Mahanon claims his lips in a fierce kiss, pushing deep once more, letting Dorian adjust but then, even his tight control begins to waver when Dorian’s muscles clutch his erection.

“Ah, lathbora viran, ma vhenan,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to Dorian’s shoulder and driving into him repeatedly, their bodies rising and meeting together in a primal dance they both revel in. “Fen’harel ma halam,”

“If your Dread Wolf is as beautiful as you, amatus,” Dorian pants pleasure building to the point of breaking, “I would gladly let him take me too.”

Cursed words, he knows.

But Maker…

Mahanon laughs, shakily, his hips stuttering as some of his rhythm falls out of cadence but his hand is steady when it settles on Dorian’s aching cock.

“Fool of a mage,” he says, voice rough with his growing climax. But Dorian stops him, holding his hand tight and keeping him from stroking up. Mahanon’s hips stutter, his eyes widening a bit when Dorian rises from the pillows, essentially halting their rutting.

“I want-I want you behind me, for the end,” he says, his voice well and truly fucked. “Please Mahanon. I would-I need it, now.”

Primal energy washes over them, as wild as the ink on Mahanon’s body, as wild as the mana sparking along their sweat and cum stained bodies.

 _Please_ , Dorian begs, silently, his eyes locked on the soft flow of his lover’s unbound hair.

His memories of their first night wash over him, tinted with the uncertain light of the Fade.

And for some reason, as Mahanon swallows heavily, draws his cock from Dorian and helps him take up his position on all fours, his ass bared to the cool air of the silent room, this seems right.

Mahanon, Maker bless him and his boundless control, reaches for some oil on the bedside table and despite his cum slicked cock and Dorian’s readiness, he takes his time, dribbling oil along the cleft of his ass. The sound of his strong hand slicking his cock down nearly drives Dorian to distraction but he smiles and folds his arms, resting his cheek on his forearms.

“You are so beautiful, Inquisitor Lavellan,” he purrs, spreading his legs a bit, teasing. His cock, arching painfully towards his belly twitches when he grinds a bit into the pillow Mahnanon had tucked beneath his hips. His balls grow even heavier but he ignores his uncomfortable desire. Focusing on the man behind him, taking care to give him what he wants.

“You are all I want, Mahanon,” he sighs, arching more and pressing his ass into the other man’s hips. “You are perfect as you are.”

He watches Mahanon from over his shoulder, chuckling when the other mage flushes, ducking his head for a second.

It’s endearing.

And still astounding.

The Inquisitor they’d grown used to never blushed.

But now…

“Dorian,” Mahanon murmurs, bending over him, feathering light kisses over his too-hot skin, letting his hair drag along Dorian’s arched back to curtain them once more. He spreads Dorian’s cheeks, slender, clever fingers circling his aching, cum and oil slicked hole, barely pressing and he smiles against Dorian’s back when he whines. The press of one finger-even after being taken mere moments before and being stretched wide twice in one night-nearly tips Dorian over the edge. But he holds on.

Maker, he holds on.

“Ma vhenan…”

Mahanon’s voice is rough. He draws his finger free and replaces it with the tip of his cock, breathing deep before, gripping Dorian’s hips tight and then in a smooth thrust, he pushes tight against Dorian’s ass.

This time, there is no burn with his penetration.

There is simply bliss.

Dorian sighs and revels in the stretch, in the roll of dark pleasure with each slow, hard thrust.

They find their rhythm once again, moving together as one, each whispering endearments in their respective tongues. Dorian’s cock leaks steadily into the sheets but he cares not a wit for the stains he knows he will leave. He cares only for the steady thrusts rocking him, grinding him deep into the bed.

This is bliss.

This is worth dying for.

This man, claiming him, body and soul.

Mahanon growls something when Dorian begins to tremble, his climax looming insistently and he stretches over Dorian’s back to place his mouth on the other man’s neck-at juncture of shoulder and throat. The bite jolts Dorian close and he cries out, legs falling even wider and hips rising as he does. Mahanon’s cock pushes deeper, hitting that dark spot deep in Dorian’s core and he whimpers, fingers spasming in the sheets.

“Come for me,” Mahanon growls, licking lightly over the telltale mark he’s left on Dorian’s flushed skin. His hand reaches around his waist to grip Dorian’s cock and together they ride the pleasure out, coming together in a few strokes and thrusts.

“Mythal’s tears,” Mahanon whispers, tucking his head between Dorian’s shoulder blades, his arms wrapping tight around the other man’s waist, supporting him. “Dorian, I…”

“You did well, amatus,” Dorian praises weakly, his eyes starting to close as the dark wave of post-coital pleasure begins to wash over his weary body. “Thank you…”

He shivers when Mahanon slips free of him, cradling him close when the tumble to the mattress, their bodies limp and heavy with orgasm and he smiles when his lover presses gentle lips to his temple.

“I think I love you, ma vhenan,” Mahanon sighs, eyes struggling to remain open and he cradles Dorian’s cheek gently in the palm of his hand. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”

Dorian snorts delicately and turns his head enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse beating steadily in the other man’s wrist.

“Nonsense, Lavellan,” he says, resting his hand gently on his lovers hip. “Because I love you as well.”

The words hover between them, heavy with promise.

With care.

And Maker bless it.

Dorian cherishes them.


End file.
